


Taking Back the Crown

by EmRosie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Harry, Dark Draco Malfoy, Drarry, M/M, Smut, Songfic, Top Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 11:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmRosie/pseuds/EmRosie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy had never looked better and - he knew - the wizarding world couldn't stand it. He has regained his family names rightful standing in the wizard world, despite the fact most witches and wizards despise him for it. Draco doesn't care for their opinions; he only wants one man and, honestly, it’s not his opinions he wants him for. Draco/Harry. Quite dark Draco.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Back the Crown

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first work on here, although I do write on fanfiction under the same pen name. I’m slowly adding my works over here too after reading a lot of stuff on here that I liked. :)

Taking Back The Crown

Draco Malfoy smirked. A long, slow drawn out expression which spread from his lips right to the outmost corners of his face. He took a glass from the nearest waitress who, in credit to her skills in hospitality, managed to contain her reaction to only a brief flicker of wide-eyed, slack-lipped surprise to cross her features – it was only a heartbeat of an expression and Draco highly doubted anyone else had seen it at all. 

But he had, of course.

Because Draco Malfoy lived for moments like this. He thrived on them like he did air, food and water. Except such moments were so much more satisfying. He offered the witch a lazily charming wink, watched with pleasure as her cheeks heated up before she scuttled away. 

He took a sip from the glass he had taken, the other hand smoothing down his finely spun, silken robes of the deepest onyx - they could not be mistaken for black, not with the way the shone under the parities lights - hemmed with the purest silver. He caught his reflection in one of the many mirrors which seemed to adorn the walls of parities such as this, although he didn’t need to see himself to know that his platinum hair was perfectly styled; a little longer than it had been in Hogwarts, but nowhere near as long as his fathers. His features, despite a slight softening from his teen years, were still strong and powerful, with his high cheekbones framing his deep grey eyes. Which, of course, were complimented by the onyx and silver mixture of robes. 

Draco knew that he had never looked better. He had never looked better and, what was more, the wizarding world couldn’t stand it. He knew, for he had heard them say so under their breaths.

“When did he get all confident?” A stout, beady-eyed witch had whispered venomously under her breath as Draco passed. The words only made him lift his chin higher, his smirk grow deeper. 

Those on the light side of the war hated him, naturally, for the mark on his arm. Despite Potter speaking for him at the trials, with enough force to grant him pardon from Azkaban, the majority of the wizarding world was still filled with hatred at the sound of his surname. Others; his father’s former associates, his former school mates, former family allies, hated him for how successful he had become. Many of them had floundered and failed where he had flourished. After the war they had been vocal in their support for the newfound, glorious wizarding world. Their words, their money, their presence in the world had been treated with scorn at best and, at worst, downright social exile. Not Draco. With his father sentenced to Azkaban for life and his mother removing herself to the family estate in France he had become Master of Malfoy Manor and he had earned that title. He had bide his time, alert and ready for changes in the wizarding world he could exploit. Unlike his foolish former allies, his murmurs were nothing more than whispers in the ears of the right people, his money was a silent lining of the right pockets at the right time and, as the years after the war tumbled forward, the presence of the Malfoy name commanded the same respect it should always have done. 

Of course, the hatred remained. Draco didn’t dislike it; in fact he revelled in it. It gave him a power he knew how to wield. And, of course, he had no problem finding a lover. He sought out the young waiting witch again, allowing his grey eyes to flicker up and down her slender frame. Her reaction had been pleasing, but expected. She would do for the evening, Draco supposed, if no… alternative solutions could be found.

As if a master of legilimency – which he certainly wasn’t, if what Professor Snape had told him was to be believed – Draco’s alternative solution walked into the room. 

Harry Potter was dressed impeccably, of course. The Ministry would not allow their Head Auror - the youngest Head of the Auror department ever, no less - to attend events looking anything less. Draco allowed himself a moment to feast upon the site; fine, tailored robes of the deepest burgundy lined his fit Auror’s frame. His black, curly hair, as resistant to styling charms as ever, somehow provided the perfect frame for his facial features. His shoulders had broadened considerably and he had gained a few inches of height. Perhaps the newfound height came from the fact that, a few months ago, he’d managed to shrug the weight of the She-Weasel bint after 4 years of marriage. 

Yes, it had been quite the scandal. 

The She-Weasel had been caught cheating on Potter. Of course, The Prophet had a field day. Draco recalled the events with the satisfaction he always did; people turning their glares away from him in the streets to focus on the red-headed slut, watching as she tried to hold her head high as people spat at her feet, hurling abuse and actual curses in her path. How dare she, the wizarding world collectively asked, betray their Saviour? How dare she break his heart, they accused, after everything he had done for the world?

Even Draco had to admit he found it difficult to understand how she could face the world with the bravado that she did.

That was, of course, until events took a rather interesting turn. 

“CHOSEN ONE CHOSE MEN: EX-WIFE REVEALS ALL.” The Prophet had blared, the letters at least eight inches high above a picture of Potters troubled face. That was all that dominated the front page, with two pages inside dedicated to the tale the She-Weasel had told. A story of how, she had only turned to the Montrose Magpies chaser, Sean Fleek, after Harry had confessed his sexuality to her. They lived for some time, she claimed, as friends rather than lovers. Potter hadn’t been ready for the scrutiny of the wizarding world’s judgemental eye and she had agreed to keep his secret. What was more; she’d had Potters permission, of all things, to start shagging Fleek.

His permission. 

Draco despised Potter for being so weak. How could he give wife, whether he loved her or not, permission to lie with another man just to hide his own secrets?

Secrets that, in Draco’s opinion, needn’t be secret at all. It turned out that Potter’s fear of rejection from the wizarding world for his sexuality had come from some muggle aversion to gay relationships that, despite looking into, Draco couldn’t really understand. Of course, as a Pureblood wizard he would be expected, ultimately, to find a wife to bear children and continue the family line. But what he did, and with whom, until that time came was of no significant concern. 

It was then that a plan had begun to take root, quite deeply, in Draco’s mind. He had already built back the Malfoy empire; he had restored power and wealth to the name, reinstated the value of his opinion whether people liked it or not. He had regained the fearsome standing his ancestors had once had. 

But there was still one thing he hated, one weakness he despised, one chink in his cold, solid armour. 

Potter.

He owed Potter. The admission was like acid on his tongue; Malfoy’s did not owe debts. He had, at one time, been on the upper hand. He had saved Potter and his friends during the capture at the Manor in the height of the war. Potter had, of course, returned that life debt when he saved Draco from the flames in the Room of Hidden Things during the midst of the Battle of Hogwarts. Those life debts were equal, considered settled, as each cancelled out the other.

But then Potter had to go one further. He spoke for Draco and his mother at the Death Eater trials. He managed to free Narcissa completely, allowing her to flee to France, and reduce Draco’s sentencing to the terms of a year’s house arrest and two years of monitoring and limitations on his magic. 

It wasn’t a life debt, it was worse.

It was a matter of pride, of honour. 

He had worked tirelessly to restore glory to his name yet it all his efforts were tainted by the man who had arrived at the party. 

He would, however, take back the crown. He would take back his honour, his glory from Potter with the one skill he knew he was flawless with. He knew, of course, for he had been told many times. 

He would own Potter. He looked, once again, back across to the man who had now taken a drink from the same witch who had offered one to Draco – who had treated him with the same reverence that every hero-worshipper did, if Potter’s embarrassed smile and her blush could be trusted – and was now beginning to make his way through the circles of partygoers desperate to converse with the Chosen One. 

He knew better than to approach, having watching Potter from a distance at several of these functions. He had already formulated his plan; now it was time to put it into action. He noted the direction in which Potter appeared to be moving and headed toward a group who were gathered in his upcoming path. He chose the group based on their members; Brian Woodcroft, a Ministry potions expert whom Draco had worked with through his business would be a conversationalist that Draco could tolerate until Potter reached them. The wizard, Eric Thorpe, who was an international ingredient importer for rare potions and witch, Thorpe’s wife – Draco couldn’t remember her name and had no reason to, she was insignificant – with him would be tolerable. Thorpe had supplied Draco several times; the scowl on his face as Draco approached told him that their arrangement was definitely business and not pleasure, but Draco didn’t mind at all. Much better, he believed, to keep your associates at a distance. 

“Woodcroft, Thorpe.” He greeted, giving each wizard a small, swift bow as he approached. He didn’t bother to offer Thorpe’s wife the courtesy of his attentions, there was no need. 

“Malfoy.” Woodcroft replied, offering a bow of greeting in return. “How’s business?”

“Very good, thank you. My latest advances in brewing with Armadillo Bile are coming along very pleasingly. In fact –“ He paused, turning his attention to Thorpe who, until that point, he had completely frozen out of the conversation. “I’ll need another shipment soon.” It made sense to secure business where he could, of course. His father had always said the best business was done at parties. “As well as some Boomslang skin.” Thorpe gave a sharp, short nod; he may not appreciate working with Malfoy but he wasn’t a fool, he knew good money when he saw it.

“Boomslang skin?” Woodcroft interjected, one eyebrow raised. “Whatever are you mixing up, Malfoy?”

“That.” Malfoy replied, turning his attention back to Woodcroft with a wink. “Would be telling. Once it is complete, however, you will be the first to know.” Draco permitted himself to give another bow, this time a little lower, suggesting a higher level of respect. It was all an act, of course, but an act Draco played well. Woodcroft’s eager smile told Draco all he needed to know; that Woodcroft believed he would be the first to hear of any advances Draco made. He wouldn’t, of course, but the belief was necessary for Draco to pass under the eyes and ears of the Ministry undetected. He allowed his gaze to search out Potter again and noticed, with a flicker of annoyance, that he had now begun to circulate in the opposite direction.

“If you’ll excuse me.” He said, directing his farewell bow to Woodcroft only before turning away. 

“How can you stand to discuss potioneering so candidly with him?” Thorpe hissed to Woodcroft as Draco began to walk away and the blonde smirked to himself. He had hardly planned to cause such a dispute between the pair but, of course, he revelled in any he did cause. With the thought fresh on his mind he noted the group directly next to the wizards Potter currently held court with and his smirk grew wider. Perfect. 

“Good evening.” He greeted as he slipped into the small circle, this time consisting of two wizards and their wives. Both were old, almost forgotten, Pureblood names who clung to the reputations of their names. The reputation was, after the war, all they had to take pride in. Neither family, the Fawley’s nor the Shafiq’s, had been on the side of dark but neither had they been openly on the side of the resistance. Draco knew that they were two of the families who had fallen prey to the post-war desperation to be seen supporting the ‘right’ people and had lost most of their money in badly timed investments which, thanks to the suspicion of the wizarding world at that time, had not paid off. Draco rewarded himself with another small smirk in the knowledge of the pride that he had never been so foolish. “Fawley, Shafiq.” He nodded to each in turn, giving a deeper bow to both than he had to those in his previous conversation. It wasn’t that he respected these more, in fact, it was rather the opposite. He kept his eyes high, fixing each wizard with a stare which could be considered mocking to those on the end of it. 

“Malfoy.” Shafiq snipped, his tone short and clipped, despite the warning elbow his wife placed in his ribs. Draco gave her an approving glance; Maria Shafiq, to her credit, was probably the only reason the entire family weren’t in ruins. 

“Malfoy.” Fawley echoed, his voice filled with scorn that rivalled his associates. His wife, Draco noted, was clearly not as intelligent as Shafiq’s and rather than interrupting her husband’s snipe levelled Draco with a look of contempt to match his tone. Draco flashed his teeth at the pair, making sure his expression would appear – from a distance, at least – open and welcoming. His eyes, of course, told a different story. They glittered with contempt that opposed his smile, visible only to those it was meant for. 

“Fantastic night, isn’t it?” He offered, raising the glass he still held. He knew it wouldn’t take long for Fawley to ignite, not if he pressed the right buttons. “Charitable events are always so… fulfilling.” He emphasised the final word as he allowed his gaze to travel purposely over the dress robes the Fawley’s wore; they had clearly been fine once upon a time. Now they were faded, no longer glittering with the wealth of the fabric as Draco’s did, and slightly frayed at the hems, a clear side effect of one too many cleaning charms. 

“Come to throw more of your dirty money around?” Fawley sneered, forgoing Draco’s social niceties in ensure his expression appeared friendly or, at least, neutral. He could have rolled his eyes at their blatant lack of proper Pureblood education; despite his father’s faults, he had been an excellent educator in the art of social disagreements. 

“Why Fawley.” Draco mock-gaped, ensuring his tone appeared sufficiently wounded. Of course, his eyes still shone with sarcasm, letting his opponent know that his tone was nothing more than a show for those around him. “I pride myself in giving to those in true need. Perhaps…” He paused, allowing his gaze to linger once again over their robes, allowing his lips to curl into a slow smirk. 

“We indulge in no such charity. Especially with the likes of the Malfoy’s.” Fawley’s wife spat, her eyes burning with anger at being insulted in such a way. Out of the corner of his eye Draco saw Potter approaching and had to stifle a laugh; truly, the Saviours timing couldn’t have been any better. 

“Why Prucella,” he purred, purposely using her given name to stir more contempt “I’m shocked. I would have thought indulging in charity would be the top of your list. Especially when the Malfoy name has been able to make such a generous contribution.” He lifted his gaze, feigning seeing Potter for the first time. “Oh, Mr Potter. We were just discussing the contributions we have made to tonight’s worthy cause.” He said, flashing the him a perfectly polite smile. “Mrs Fawley here was just about to explain to us why she sees no need to… What were your words, Madam? Oh yes…. indulge in such charity.” He turned his gaze back to Fawley and his wife, his jaw aching with the effort it took to hold the smirk from breaking out across his perfectly schooled, absent features. He knew, of course, he was twisting the witch’s words, but a pensive memory from the correct angle – one that didn’t show Draco’s disrespectful gaze to their clothing – would hold up the way he had retold events for Potter.

Prucella Fawley’s face raged with a glorious mix between shame and fury; her cheeks were glowing as brightly as a Howler and her mouth gaped in a way that resembled a most unsightly fish for several moments before she recovered herself. “We meant our words in no such way, of course, Mr Potter.” She floundered and Draco allowed himself to look away from her failing excuses for a moment to note, with delight, that the Shafiq’s had silently left the conversation. Clearly they didn’t want to associate their name with the mess the Fawley’s were making for themselves. 

Before Potter could jump in with his usual noble attitude, Malfoy nodded his head, fixing his features into an appropriately sympathetic expression. “Of course not, Mrs Fawley.” He soothed his tone all for Potter’s benefit. “I’m sure we can be expecting news of your donation in the course of tonight’s events, can’t we?” 

Words had apparently failed the witch once again and this time Draco couldn’t hold back his smirk. He subtly altered his position so his expression could not cross Potter’s gaze and allowed the Fawley’s to see the full extent of his merriment at their downfall; of course there would be no such donation. If rumours of their current financial status were to be believed, their vault in Gringott’s was down to its last few sickles and their once glorious manor home was largely in ruin. 

Mr Fawley stepped to take his wife’s elbow in that moment. “Of course.” He replied, clearly more well-versed in the social expectations of Pureblood culture. One would not simply admit their defeat. “If you will excuse us, I can see a colleague over by the drinks table.” It was a feeble excuse and it made Malfoy’s smirk all the wider. “Mr Potter. Mr Malfoy.” He bid farewell, with nothing but respect in the deep bow he offered to Potter and, Draco noted with warmth, nothing but contempt in the short one he was offered. He ensured his features were appropriately neutral before he turned back to Potter, aware they were now the only two in the conversation. 

“What are you doing, Malfoy?” Potter was the first to speak, his face full of suspicion. His green eyes were wide and cautious, his lip curled as if he longed to bite it. His gaze flickered after the Fawley’s as if trying to read their minds for the dastardly tricks he longed to accuse Draco of. Honestly, for the youngest head Auror in the lifetime of the Ministry, he would surely win no prizes for concealment. 

“You mean besides offering my financial aid to this brilliant cause?” He asked, looking around the grand hall they stood in with a wide-eyed look of wonder which suggested he could think of no other reason he could be there. He watched as Potter folded his arms, fixing Draco with a long, hard stare. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine; he had forgotten how it felt to be opposed like this, how Potter could stand and fight against him without preamble, how they could bring out the worst in each other.

It made him yearn all the more for the prize he coveted. 

“Well, I’m wrecking this evening already and loving every minute of it.” Draco drawled, purposely seeking out the Fawley’s who had bundled themselves into a corner and were whispering furiously, each with a face to rival the famous Weasley hair. He chuckled darkly, turning his gaze back to Potter when he was sure he had watched them long enough for Potter to see them too. “I’m ruining this banquet for the mildly inspiring and…” 

“And?” Potter interrupted before Draco’s dramatic pause could even gain momentum. He snarled with heat that could rival a dragon and Draco remembered all too well the reasons he had been so fond of opposing Potter at Hogwarts. 

“I have spent years, Potter, rebuilding my families’ name, my wealth, my power after the war.” He knew he could talk straight with Potter. He had no reason to layer his charm, to spin tales, to offer the right words and affect the correct gestures. He relished in the openness, in the chance to be his true, cold self. “Yet there is something missing.”

Potter prompted him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and, for a moment, Draco hesitated. He wanted more of an open retort from Potter, an anger he could spar too. His silence was unnerving, yet he had no choice yet to respond to it.

“My pride.” He growled, lowering his voice so it would be heard by no one, so low that he knew even Potter would need to strain to hear it. “You took it from me when you spoke for my freedom. I’m here to take it back.”

“And how, exactly, do you plan on doing that?” Potter asked, looking genuinely confused. He had from the moment Draco mentioned speaking for him. No doubt his Gryffindor morals of doing the right thing still guided him like a ‘point me’ charm. 

Draco mulled over his response, letting the silence wash over them both. Potter clearly found the silence challenging as he blundered on in the way only a Gryffindor could. “I can’t exactly take it back and, even if I could, I doubt you would exactly want me to. I mean, it could land you straight in Azakaban, what good would your pride do yo-“

“Of course I don’t.” Draco snapped, interrupting Potter’s blathering before he could insult the importance of pride any more than he already had. Of course pride did people well; it had sustained his father until he had taken his last breaths in the stone walls of prison. 

“Then what?” Potter asked incredulously.

“Tell me, Potter.” Draco began, in a move which would appear to change the subject but was only bringing them closer to his ultimate goal. “Have you ever actually been fucked by a man?” 

Potter’s face blanched at Draco’s words in a way that he found all too pleasing. His words had been abrupt, he knew. They washed like acid over his tongue, harsh and stinging. It felt good to be free of the stifled polite exchanges, the careful word choices that he usually relied upon in his political games. He knew, after all, that Potter wouldn’t fall for them. Potter was Potter and he was Malfoy; this was them, pure and raw. 

He watched Potter’s rapidly changing expressions with light amusement; it was now his turn to flounder, gaping like a merman plucked from the depths of the Black Lake, as he tried to find the words to respond to Draco.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Draco said, an amused smirk of satisfaction curling across his lips. “That makes what I have in mind all the better.”

Potter had regained control of his features, his surprise now forced away behind a blank mask. Or, at least, what Potter probably thought was a blank mask. Honestly, how this man had become head Auror was beyond Malfoy. His face was straight, but his eyes had a mixture of shock and confusion which had him looking as lost as a Flobberworm. Sensing the time was right he leant forward, close enough to direct his breath hot and heavy into Potter’s ear as he spoke, but not close enough to arouse suspicion amongst the crowd of partygoers. 

“I’m going to own you, Potter.” He breathed, allowing his eyes to flicker sideways and take in the changing expression of his face. “I’m going to take back my pride from you. I’m taking back the crown.” He paused to deepen his smirk, knowing Potter would be able to feel, rather than see, the change of expression against the side of his face. “I see what’s mine and take it.”

Potter was silent as Draco drew back, licking his lips as he poured his gaze across the dark haired man’s face. He could feel a bulge building beneath his robes; Potter was attractive, but it went deeper than that. The power, the heady feeling he got from speaking his desires aloud, so close to his goal that he could taste it, was enough to make his cock begin to fill with blood. 

“What makes you think I’ll allow that?” Potter whispered back. He was, Draco thought, probably going for a haughty, slightly prudish tone. Instead all he achieved was a squeaky, high-pitched tone that would have betrayed his desire – if the burning glare of his emerald eyes already hadn’t.

“Everything.” Draco replied simply, smirking as he raked his gaze up and down Potter, deliberately heating him with desire. “Your voice, your eyes… If I was close enough, I’d bet my reclaimed fortune would tell me your cock could tell me too.” 

Potter’s sharp intake of breath as Draco mentioned his physical response told the blonde all he needed to know about the other man’s current situation. 

“I didn’t think you… Were…” Potter was stalling now; Draco could see through the open emotions of his eyes that he was floundering between finding a reason to walk away and giving into the desire that tugged at him.

“I have no real preference.” Draco responded, eager to dismiss Potter’s weak attempts to stall and move onto claiming his mate. “Unlike you, Potter, I have no qualms about my sexuality. I can teach you things you wouldn’t dare to dream of, I could make you feel things that would blow your mind.” A little bit of seduction, Draco reasoned, would not make his victory over Potter any less. It would not taint his pride when it returned to him. If anything, it would break down Potters final barriers, leave him entirely open to bend to Draco’s will and make his victory all the sweeter. As he bore his grey gaze into Potter’s eyes, he could see the his words had only increased the ferocity of the battle that raged in them. 

Time to take a risk.

“I do not, however, wait around.” He hissed, allowing just the right amount of frustration balanced with a hint of desire seep into his tone, keeping his face poker straight as he took a step away from Potter –

to have his wrist grasped, a hard, sure gesture strengthened by the fingers which tightened around him.

Victory swelled within Draco, singing to him like the sweetest siren, yet when he spoke he levelled his voice to the coolest tones. “I trust you can apparate to the gates of Malfoy Manor.” He said, watching the nod of response that Potter gave although he didn’t need to see it. Since his first visit during the war, Potter had visited the Manor on several occasions in his earlier years within the lowest ranks of the aurors. In the days where the Malfoy name was just beginning to rise again, as Draco figured out the right tip in the balance of power, the politics he needed to play and the pockets he needed to fill, the aurors had become disturbed, demanding to search Draco’s home and question him for illegal activities. They were convinced his return to power must be as dark as the magic which still scarred his arm. Draco wouldn’t allow himself, even in the privacy of his mind, to respond to such a thought (Legimens working under the guide of Ministry, he knew, were beginning to appear everywhere and were becoming increasingly discrete) only to comfort himself in the safety of his secrets and the knowledge that the aurors would never know.

Potter released his arm and moved away, sweeping toward the same grand door he had used to make his entrance. Draco watched him go, raking his gaze hungrily over the tailored robes which clung to him, allowing himself to bask in the glory, both physical and mental, that he would soon claim his prize. 

When Potter was gone, he swept his gaze around the hall and finished the last of his drink. He placed it down on the tray of a passing waitress and began to move to a table lined with drinks toward the back of the room. He had already noted – as he always did when arriving at such events – several alcoves and hidden corners which most hosts often forgot when setting the altered apparition wards for their parties. He slipped behind the table and into a deep alcove, successfully hiding himself in the swell of darkness. He waited for a moment, closing his eyes and concentrating, forcing himself to feel the magic in the air around him. A short moment later he barked out a laugh, openly rolling his eyes in disgust. Honestly, he seriously doubted there was a wizard around who could set an personal anti-apparation ward worth a knut. 

Apart from the Malfoy’s, of course.

As Master of the Manor, Draco landed successfully where he had envisioned; at the very entrance to the Manor, at the foot of the long, winding, white stone path yet behind the tall, imposing iron gates which separated the Manor from the world outside.

Where Potter stood, waiting.

Draco allowed himself a smirk, opening the gates and lifting the wards to admit Potter with a non-verbal motion, stepping back as the gates parted soundlessly to allow him inside. 

“Welcome.” He whispered, dropping his voice to match the purr of Sphinx. He saw Potter glance up the long path behind him, clearly calculating the distance between them and the Manor and – no doubt, being Potter – wondering what they would do to fill the silence. He laughed, the sound deep and dark as it vibrated beneath his ribs, shaking his head as he stepped forward, closing the space between them and taking Potter’s arm.

He tugged them both into apparition, his status of Master of the Manor allowing him to guide both himself and Potter through the strongest of the wards and directly into the entrance hall of the Manor itself. As they landed against the marble flooring a house-elf arrived with a crack beside them, bowing lowly to Draco. 

“Welcome home, Master Malfoy. Is there anything Bilby can be doing for his master, sir?” The elf asked, addressing the floor rather than Draco with the depth of his bow. 

“Firewhisky on ice in my bedroom. Two glasses. That will be all.” The elf nodded in response to Draco’s cool command and disappeared with the same crack it had arrived with.

With his attention returned to Potter he saw the swallow of apprehension deep in his throat as his gaze flickered around. The eye movements – from the vanished elf, to the grand, golden staircase which dominated the entrance hall, to Draco himself and, finally, to the door – were so rapid most would not have noticed them. Draco, however, did. He sensed Potter’s hesitation with a flare of panic. Obviously Potter wouldn’t be able to just disappear, with the Malfoy wards as strong as Draco knew they were, but he could certainly flee. He wouldn’t make it far without interruption, not with the distance from the Manor to the gates, but Malfoy certainly wouldn’t chase. That would more than halt Draco’s attempts to claw back his pride; it would completely destroy it.

Without allowing his anxiety at Potter’s changing mood to show he took a languid, almost lazy step forward, determined not to show Potter the power his hesitation currently held over him. If he knew the way he was currently affecting Draco he would no doubt find a way to use to his advantage. A way, Draco was sure, that would unbalance the restoration of his pride. 

He connected their eyes, keeping his stare boring deep into Potter’s, pleased to see the simple gesture seemed to fix him like stone, staring unblinkingly back into Draco’s grey gaze. He stood for a moment himself, slipping out a tongue to coat his lips, noting with delight how Potter’s gaze wavered in that moment, following the pattern that his tongue made. Potter’s hesitation wasn’t anything that some leisurely, teasingly placed seduction wouldn’t fix, he reassured himself as he watched the other man’s reactions, now musing unhurriedly over his next action. 

He thought back to how his earlier risk had paid off, recalled the memories of his past spars with Potter, and a wicked smile crossed his lips. Potter would not – could not, Draco knew – back down from a challenge. A thrill ran through his bones as he slipped back into a persona he missed showing so publicly; the arrogant, spoilt, sure Draco, once a teenager with an over-inflated ego, but now a man with the achievements to enforce his superiority. 

He cocked an eyebrow, keeping the rest of his face as cool as the marble floor beneath them, and spoke in nothing more than a whisper. He chose his words carefully; choosing a quote which he knew would resonate with the rash, impulsive Gryffindor tendencies he knew could still control his opponent. “Scared, Potter?” 

Draco watched as the flicker of understanding ran through Potter’s eyes, leaving a burning fire in their wake. “You wish.” He hissed in return, seemingly determined to build up his own pride. Draco repressed a chuckle; breaking down those barriers would be now problem once he had him on his back.

With delicious thoughts of Potter in that exact position Draco cocked his head, as if mulling over a particularly interesting thought – it wasn’t hard to feign, the thought of Potter on his back was interesting for more reasons than one – and curled his lips into a gentle smirk. “Not this time, Potter. I prefer my lovers-” Draco paused, delighting in the shiver that shook Potter’s spine at his choice of words and deciding to play deeper on the reaction, lowering his tone seductively. “-to be willing, after all, pleasure is nothing to be fearful of.”

Confident that Potter’s hesitations had been forgotten and that he was rightfully back in command of their situation Draco turned toward the stairs. He was now confident that Potter would follow and he had no desire to overplay the situation – employing the right amount of seduction, he still believed, was not detrimental to regaining his pride. Too much, however, would make it seem as if he wanted Potter for more than power and physical pleasure. 

He heard the soft footfalls of the man behind his as he led the way up the staircase and was sure that now Potter would not turn back. He was careful to move through the Manor’s corridors at a languid pace, revelling in the tingling sensation which spread across his entire being at the power he held, shifting the pattern of his steps as his erection began to grow again. When he had claimed Potter and taken back his pride he would be unstoppable. 

He reached his rooms and touched the door handle for a few moments with the tip of his wand. It was an extra layer of wards he had personally introduced to the Manor, leading to a suspicion amongst investigating aurors which had, at the time, made Draco light-headed with glee. They had of course returned with powers to instruct Draco to permit entrance to his chambers and found nothing – the extra security which lay there had done its job remarkably; the job of distracting the aurors from the true hiding places of the Manor’s secret. Now, as he heard the man behind him shift his weight nervously from foot to foot, it gave him the added advantage of enforcing the reality of the wealth of power he held over Potter. 

Once they were in Draco’s rooms he headed to the table that, true to instruction, the elves had left covered with crystal tumblers, ice and a bottle of Ogden’s finest. He headed over the table, aware that Potter had stopped still in the doorway. He had suspected this and was glad he had the forethought to request the drinks as a tool to coax him to the final destination of Draco’s lavish, silken four poster bed. 

He poured a generous helping into each glass, lifting one toward Potter as a welcoming gesture. He had no intention of drinking his own, of course, as he had plans to commit every moment of this night to his memories. Potter stood, eyeing the glass with his last traces of wariness, yet moved forward all the same. He took the glass from Draco with a nod, his fingers trembling only for a moment before he wrapped his fingers behind it. 

“Now , now Potter, I won’t bite.” Draco teased, treating the other man to a smile he knew was devilishly handsome thanks to the reassurances of several of the witches and wizards to grace his bed. He dropped both his tone and his lips, seeking out Potters ear at the same time the dark haired man went to take a drink and whispered;

“Unless you want me to, of course...”

If Draco had been looking to take Potter as a lover and companion he would have been dismayed with the sound of crystal shattering against the floor, spilling its contents over his finest, elf-spun rug. However, Potter was only here for the power he could afford Draco, and the soiling of a rug, however fine, and a glass that could be fixed with a simple ‘repairo’ were small prices to pay for the knowledge of the absolute power he held over him. 

So Draco Malfoy claimed his first kiss from Harry Potter’s lips.

They were chapped, weather worn and bitten, beneath Draco’s smooth ones, but were warm and firm and real. After a few moments – no doubt still recovering from Draco’s words, bloody innocent Gryffindor – Potter’s shock subsided and his lips responded eagerly in return to the pace Draco had set. Their mouths worked together and Draco worked their bodies backward, moving both of their bodies with ease until he felt his bed meet with the bottom of his legs. He paused his movements and focused his attention back to the current main event; the connection of his and Potter’s lips. Time to up the stakes, he thought, sliding out a tongue to trace the opening to Potter’s mouth. Potter granted him access and their tongues slipped and wound together. It was a battle that lasted mere seconds; Draco commanded dominance, his tongue curving strongly against the other man’s and Potter appeared powerless to resist. With his strength assured Draco used his grip on Potter’s shoulder and waist – when his hands had moved there, exactly, he wasn’t sure and he vowed to keep better track of his bodies reactions to Potter’s – and altered their positions so that the darker haired man now stood with his legs pressed against the side of the bed. Draco allowed the kiss to deepen further, investing more and more of an interest in exploring every corner of Potter’s mouth. Normally, with a conquest like this which was more about power than pleasure, he would have already pinned his partner to the bed. For now, he was enjoying the kiss too much. Later, he would no doubt dwell on it and tell himself that the reason for pace was to ensure he had truly invaded every part of Potter, that he had truly owned him.

It would be an acceptable excuse, so for now he could enjoy the pleasure.

Their tongues continued to clash and a whimper from Potter escaped from between his parted lips. Recognising the sound as a clear sign in the game he was playing Draco took the opportunity to raise his hand to the clasp of Potter’s dress robes, opening and dropping them to the floor with one neat click. Beneath Potter wore black trousers and a plain, white shirt; the shirt posed no threat to Draco and he wasted no time opening each of the pearly buttons until the shirt too lay discarded atop of Potter’s robes. He broke their kiss, pleased to see that Potter seemed to gasp hungrily for air, and pushed the other man to the bed. Potter tumbled with no resistance, falling back against the silken sheets of Draco’s bed. Their owner smirked, looking down at his prize with glee. He traced every inch of Potter with his eyes, starting with his face. His expression was so raw, so open it almost made Draco shudder; it screamed pure need, his emerald eyes blazed with fire and his lips still lay parted as if mourning the loss of Draco’s. He allowed his gaze to travel down, over broad shoulders and tight muscle. He was by no means heavily built, like the burly beaters Draco sought out for pleasure, but was lined with the strength that came from life as an auror. His gaze travelled down, over the navel and to the unmistakable bulge straining against his trousers. 

There was no sense in taking the image as another jewel in his crown of pride when, as a twitch from below his robes reminded him, Draco was just as aroused.

Not that he would show that to Potter until it was necessary, of course.

He reached out a hand, palming Potter through his trousers and watching the way his eyelids fluttered in pleasure. This is almost too easy, Draco thought to himself, repressing a dark, cool laugh and instead focusing on the task at hand. He opened Potter’s trousers, tugging them down to his ankles where he hoped the other man would have the sense to kick them off. He lifted himself up, onto the bed and over Potter, straddling him and settling himself directly over the hard cock lining Potter’s boxers. Malfoy himself was, of course, still fully dressed. In the game of power he would take no moves to undress himself until he was absolutely certain that Potter had undeniably bended to his will. 

He sank his body lower, positioning his lips inches from Potter’s; he was close enough that he couldn’t see anything in the room but Potter, so close their lips almost touched, yet far enough away that he would be able to see the reaction to the words he spoke. 

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you, Potter?” He whispered, his breath bursting hot and heavy and dancing over the other man’s lips. Draco felt, rather than saw, his reaction in the cock which twitched violently against his thigh. He smirked, yet waiting, needing the verbal admission before he could claim his prize.

Potter’s eyes closed, agonisingly slowly, and opened again at the same pace. Bright, blazing eyes fixed to Draco’s as the dark haired man’s lips opened and he breathed, “Yes.”

He could feel, even through the material of his robes and Potter’s boxers, the other man’s cock throbbing with need, still twitching against his thigh. He paused, wondering if another risk, another twist of the knife he was carving out Potter’s pride with, would pay off. He knew, however, as soon as the thought crossed his mind that he would pursue it. There was something about Potter that returned him to the rash, impulsive teenager of years gone by; with other conquests, in other situations, Draco would maintain a cool separation, a steady head, and ensure that he succeeded. Yet with Potter, despite the price being as high as it ever had been, a question of his true pride, he couldn’t help himself. 

He took the risk, and breathed, “Yes….?” 

His pause was long and purposeful, his eyes not backing away from the connection that Potter himself had made as he waited for the other man’s response. 

“Yes please.” Potter replied, his breath sharp and short as he did, as if he were about to burst with need. The sight, the sound, the feel of Potter begging beneath him sent a jolt straight to Draco’s cock and he stood in a swift, graceful movement and removed his own robes with a click as precise and neat as the one he had used to remove Potter’s.

Beneath he was naked, now more exposed than Potter, yet he didn’t mind. His state of undress was purposeful; tonight he had been a man on a mission. His nakedness, as it was, served to speed the time between now and the moment in which his pride would be truly restored. If Potter had resisted and Draco had returned home alone, it would have served as a harsh, bitter reminder of his failure that Draco would have needed to learn from.

Thankfully, however, that was not the case.

He opened his palm, silently summoning his wand to rest in it. It was a clever, impressive piece of magic that Draco had spent some time perfecting; it definitely made such bedroom trysts - where a cool, collected manor was essential to success – much easier than if he had to fumble through the folds of removed robes for his wand. Without missing a beat he spelled away Potter’s boxers, not even allowing a moment for the other man to become used to his sudden naked state before he called upon his magic again, this time coating Potter’s hole in lube. 

Potter felt the intrusion and gasped, his eyes widening as the feeling assaulted him. Draco smirked, lowering his wand and then his body. 

“I’ll take you on your back.” He murmured, nudging Potter’s legs apart as he positioned himself between them. He urged the other man to change his position until his now wet, yet impossibly small hole was visible for Draco’s greedy eye. He wasted no time in slipping a finger inside, revelling in every sound, every gasp, that Potter made. Each note was the sweet sound of the pride he had stolen sliding back to Draco. He soon added a second finger and began, slowly at first, to pump in and out of Potter, easing the hole wider. The addition of a third finger took Draco deeper and he searched expertly for Potter’s prostate; his goal was not, of course, to give Potter pleasure, but he could hardly claim back his pride if he didn’t truly leave Potter, after his first time with a man – with Draco Malfoy, ruined to anyone else. He was, he knew, a top class lover and he would ensure that Potter knew so, and that he would never know pleasure like it again. 

A sudden squeal from above told Draco he had found his goal. The sound was somewhere between a yelp of surprise and a moan of pleasure and Draco allowed himself a short, dark laugh. “Welcome to your prostate, Potter.” He smirked and redoubled his efforts, pulsing his fingers against the spot and inspiring more moans from the man beneath him. 

He withdrew his fingers without warning, earning a gasp of surprise from Potter. He used his wet, lube stained fingers to coat his cock, feeling his erection throb with need as he touched it. He shifted Potter’s legs, moving them until had the head of his cock aligned perfectly with the other man’s entrance. He wasted no time on sweet words, on whispered reassurances; it would hurt, of course, and Draco wasn’t about to do anything that would lessen that. Their liaison wasn’t about Potter’s pleasure, but about Draco’s power, and it was time that Potter understood that. 

Without warning, he pushed inside. 

He forced himself to contain the hiss of pleasure which bubbled in his throat, trapping it behind his teeth before it escaped. There was no doubt that he had been correct in his earlier assumption; Potter had never confirmed that he had never actually been with a man but there was no way that someone could be so tight, so hot and close and not be a virgin. Well, an anal virgin, at least.

In line with his earlier stance, Draco wasted no time in a gentle pause, or even in slow, soft strokes which would reassure Potter that his pain would turn to pleasure as he became used to the sensations. It would happen, Draco knew that, and soon enough Potter would too. So instead he began to slam into the other man, his hips thrusting and grinding with pure, raw force. He clenched his fists into Potter’s hips, holding him tight against him as he entered repeatedly, slamming with a steady yet strong rhythm into the one he had claimed. Potter soon began to writhe and moan beneath him and Draco knew his pain had succumbed to pleasure; he drank in the sight greedily, watching every nuance of Potter’s expression, listening with rapt attention to every soft moan and pleasure laced gasp. Again, he knew that when the time came for him to be alone he would question the attention he had paid, yet once again his conscious mind had already prepared a suitable excuse; of course it was only natural that, after yearning for the return of his pride for so long, he would wanted to remember everything about the way it Potter looked when it crumbled from his grasp.

Excuse prepared, Draco thrust forward again, his hips heavy and hard and demanding against Potter’s arse, and lost himself to the pleasure. It built within him, pooling in his stomach hot and heavy, drawing closer to the edge with every thrust. He lifted one of his fists from Potter’s side and clasped it around the thick, hard cock which lay between them. Potter hissed at the touch and Draco continued his thrusts, pacing the pumping of his fist in time with his hand. He could not, would not, allow himself to crumble before Potter. It wasn’t about the pleasure Potter would receive, but the need to be on top, the necessity to be in complete control of their scenario. He leant down, his first still keeping perfect time with the roll of his hips, and sank his teeth into Potter’s neck in a delicious, erotic bite.

Draco didn’t need Potter’s moan to tell him that he had reached his climax; the warm, sticky liquid which doused his palm told him all he needed to know. He released the flesh between his teeth, giving the red mark he’d left a parting lick before lifting himself again. He knew, now Potter had come undone, that these would be his final strokes. He pulsed long and hard into the dark haired man beneath him, gripping his hips so hard they knew he would be faced with the bruises for days to come, and lost himself to oblivion. 

He moaned, a long, drawn out, primal sound as he came inside Potter, hardly even realising he had made the sound. His entire body shuddered as he emptied the last of himself into the other man and gasped a deep, long intake of air. He wouldn’t collapse onto Potter, he wouldn’t be seen as weak, no matter how spent his bones were after the pleasure which had burst through them like fire. He pulled himself free and rolled to the side, casually plucking his wand from the folds of silk sheets where he cast it down. With a simple flick and a muttered charm he was draped in a fine, silver night robe and looking down at Potter who, it seemed, had lost all ability to move. He smirked, allowing his gaze to travel the man before him again, his attractiveness only doubled in the knowledge that Draco had now claimed him. 

He had taken Potter in a way no other man had and, even in the future when others would no doubt follow, in a way that no other man could hope to.

He had, more importantly, taken back his pride. His crown rightfully restored, his smirk rightfully in place, Draco turned his gaze to Potter’s face. 

“Bilby will see you out.” He told the other man, his voice cool and detached, at odds with the sweaty, spent figure beside him.

Potter blinked, lay still for a moment, then suddenly burst into a sitting position. He leapt from the bed, rummaging for his wand to – Draco assumed – cast a cleaning charm before he dressed himself. Potter’s actions were jerky, hurried and clearly uncertain. What had he expected? Draco mused with amusement… A cuddle? He sneered at the thought, although he did allow himself to appreciate the swell of Potter’s arse before it disappeared beneath his trousers.

Perhaps, now that his pride was rightfully restored, they could see about trading games of power for games of pleasure.

Or perhaps the two were never really as far removed from each other as Draco had first assumed.

Once Potter was clothed Draco summoned Bilby with a snap of his fingers. The elf bowed lowly, expertly training his eyes to the floor and saying nothing of his master’s current situation. 

“Bilby, you will see Mr Potter directly to the gates of the Manor.” Draco instructed yet he did not take his gaze off Potter who still, from the moment he leapt from the bed, kept his back to him.

“Yes Master Malfoy sir, at once sir.” The elf assured, bowing in such quick succession it was possible he hadn’t actually ever righted himself from the first. 

“Potter.” Draco called, his gaze fixed on the back of his head now, urging the other man to turn around. After a moment he did and their eyes locked.

“Malfoy.” He retorted in return. His eyes directly challenging Draco with the question he wouldn’t speak; why?

Draco saw no reason to hold back the response whether Potter would speak the words or not. “You owed me. We’re even.” He made sure his gaze conveyed the subtle nuance of his words – they were even in terms of their sparring, yes, with Draco restoring the pride Potter had taken. But in the game of life, Draco would always win. “Just remember, Potter…” He paused, licked his lips, and made sure Bilby hadn’t left. It was vital these would be his final, parting words to Potter. “Heroes always get remembered, but legends never die.”

With that he nodded to Bilby, who nodded to his master in return, placing his grimy hand over Potter’s arm, and taking them both away with a sharp, piercing crack.


End file.
